Insomnia
by Sarlyne
Summary: "The entrance to the warehouse lay in complete silence..."  A nightmare reminds Sherlock that he HAS a heart.


The entrance to the warehouse lay in complete silence; the darkness of the October night swallowed all noise. The only thing that reminded the man in the long cloak that the time wasn't standing still, was the flickering light of the old lantern.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't a man afraid of darkness or the unknown. He barely was afraid of anything. Fear- fear was something that belonged to the minds of women, criminals, politicians and children hiding under their blankets at night. And everyone else who let him- or herself rule by emotions.

So Sherlock felt nothing but excitement when he laid his pale hand on the heavy metal door and opened it slowly. A groaning sound, like a big grizzly waking up, rang out as the metal scratched over the ground. The dim light of the lantern outside didn't let him see much, so Sherlock took out his torch. The _"Click"_ when he switched it on seemed to be infinite loud in the silence. Still curious Sherlock took a step into the warehouse.

"Anyone in here?"

Silence was the only answer he got.

With a smirk Sherlock took slowly a few more steps and looked interested at the huge containers. They stood untidy all across the hall- obviously nobody had been in here for several years and during night a fearful person might get scared. No wonder there were rumours about a"cursed" warehouse. And to the top of all, just this warehouse had the number 13. Enough to scare children and drunken teens on Halloween, but nothing more than an imagination of mind, as Sherlock knew. But nonetheless he was curious- as always when something had the "touch of the mysterious". Tonight had been perfect- Lestrade was on holidays, Mycroft on his new bought castle in Scotland and John spent the evening with Sarah. In other words: No unwanted annoyance and enough free-time to hunt ghosts.

Just as Sherlock was trying to indentify the flaked letters on one of the containers, he saw something that was more interesting; footsteps in the dust on the ground, only a bit smaller than his own. Obviously the owner was male, mid 30s and slightly hobbling on one leg. It took Sherlock no longer than a second to recognize the footsteps were not older than half an hour. And- best of all- they were leading inside, but none leading outside again. So whoever had come in here, was still there.

Sherlock's heart beat became faster of excitement.

"My, my, this is interesting, isn't it?", he whispered and stood slowly up from the ground. Who could have interest to come at night into a "cursed" warehouse, which hadn't been used since years? Police? He would have known that. A beggar? No, the shoes were new and too expensive. A normal citizen? Certainly not.

So there was only one left. A criminal? Most likely. Sherlock smirked again.

_What a great night tonight._

After a few metres the distance between the footsteps became larger; the person had been running. Why? Fear? But of what and why hadn't he run to the door then?

Sherlock followed the woven track through the labyrinth of containers, becoming more and more excited with every step. The only thing he didn't see were the tiny drops of red beneath the unknown footsteps.

After a few minutes Sherlock recognized that he had almost crossed the whole warehouse and that around the next container was the corner of it. Whoever had went until there had still to be there- there was no other escape than coming back. With his gun ready Sherlock took a last long breathe and stepped around the container to see the unknown man.

Silence.

Darkness.

Brightness. A bright but slim ray of light broke through a window; the clouds had vanished from the moon and let the silver glow fill the corner of the warehouse. And silver was the moonlight reflected from the white blonde hair. Like fog the dust danced above the ground, around the figure that laid in the middle, one hand under the stomach, the other stretched away in front of the head. He wasn't moving.

Sherlock lowered the gun.

"John?"

No doubt. The blue jacket, the hair-

"John!" Sherlock ran to his friend at let himself fall beside him. He turned him on the back and slapped him carefully on the face. "Damn it, John, this is no time for jokes!", Sherlock whispered. For an unknown reason his heart began to race. Why was John here? Why wasn't he with Sarah? Why didn't he tell him? And why...? Why, why, why...?

John's eyes were closed and he didn't seem to be bothered by any of Sherlock's attempts to wake him up. As if he-

"Don't think about it, damn it! Do. Not. Think. About it!", Sherlock tried to calm himself down. No, impossible. John couldn't be... couldn't...

It was just then when Sherlock saw the blood stained hand on John's stomach.

_...be..._

A bullet. Through the stomach it meant death of poisoning within not more than 30 minutes. With a trembling hand Sherlock tried to feel pulse. A second time. Maybe he should put his gloves off. There still was none and John's face felt cold.

"Don't do this to me, John!", Sherlock said. Something was wrong with his voice. Why was it so... so... _painful_?

_...dead..._

Slowly, very slowly Sherlock took the cold body of his friend and pressed it against him.

"John..."

_Sherlock..._

_Sherlock..._

"_Sherlock!"_

Starting Sherlock opened the eyes to see he was lying in a living room. There was no moonlight shining through a single window, but several clean windows through which he could see the afternoon sun. No dust on the ground, but heavy carpets. No dead-

Sherlock blinked surprised.

"John?"

The man in front of him sighed.

"Yes. For the fourth or fifth time, yes, Sherlock! I am here."

"Oh." Confused and still not knowing if this was a dream or not, Sherlock slowly sat up and took John's hand from his shoulder. Warm.

"Are you alright?", John asked a bit worried.

Sherlock didn't answer, but squeezed carefully John's hand in his own. Warm, pulsing. No blood on it. He closed his eyes and took a long deep breath. Good.

"Sherlock!"

"Hm?", he answered, not really listening.

"Could you please let me go?"

"Pardon?"

"My _hand_!" John's voice sounded angry and brought him back into reality.

"Oh, sure. I was... thinking." Quickly Sherlock let his hand go. "Just checking your pulse. It's fine, you're a healthy man, Doctor Watson."

"On the contrary _you_ don't seem to be that healthy, do you?", John replied.

"Pardon again?"

John went to the kitchen and Sherlock heard how he put on water for tea.

"You had fever, Sherlock!", came the answer. "When I came home you lay there on the couch, not moving for hours."

Sherlock blinked again. Oh, so he had fever? He hadn't been ill since years.

"That's interesting, I can't remember", Sherlock answered.

"_Of course_ not, you were _asleep_! But I remember very well, because you said my name at least four times and it was -pardon me- creepy."

"_Creepy_?"

"Yes, that's how I would call it."

"Oh yes, I... had a nightmare. Forget about it!"

"I'm not sure if it's a compliment to have nightmares about his best friend, but fine", John tried to answer angry, but he could hear him chuckle.

Sherlock tried to order his thoughts. Of course it had been a dream, how stupid of him not to recognize it. He would never be so emotional! And he would never go searching for ghosts and- Oh, for heavens' sake, he was ill, that was all! Tired, but not dizzy anymore, Sherlock stood up and went to one of the windows. Under him the Baker Street was filled with people and cars. Normal chaotic London city life...

"I think you're still shattered of the case with Moriarty. It's been only a month since you made the bomb explode and got a broken shoulder." John came out of the kitchen, holding a cup of tea in one hand.

"Hm. Yes, probably. I-" Sherlock stopped.

Suddenly he was reminded of something.

The Moriarty case...

_-I'll burn the __**heart**__ out of you!_

_-I have been reliably informed that I don't have one._

_-But we both know that's not quite true._

"Everything alright?"

Again, Sherlock needed a few seconds until he was back in reality.

"Yes, sure." He saw the jacket in John's hand. "What is that for? Are you going out?"

"Yes, guess what, I have still another life. -I'm visiting Sarah", he added as Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "We go to the theatre, have dinner and... well, you know.

The tea is for you by the way. Earl Grey, as always."

"Wait, wait, wait!" Sherlock shook his head. "Why do you visit Sarah?"

John looked at him with a expression on the face as if he wasn't sure if he should be angry or confused or devastated.

"Because she is my _girlfriend_, Sherlock! You should think about getting one for yourself, too." He took his jacket and went to the door.

"John!"

Rolling the eyes, John stopped and turned around. "_What_, Sherlock? I am late on time!"

Sherlock looked at him, mouth half open, not sure what and how to say. His friend looked annoyed, like so often when Sherlock asked or told too much.

_It was just a dream._

"Nothing", he said. "Nothing. Just... be careful."

With a now entirely confused look, Watson nodded slowly. That much care he wasn't used to from his friend. "Yeah, sure." And he left. Sherlock heard him going down the steps. Then the footsteps stopped and came back again. Three seconds later John looked through the door, pointing at Sherlock.

"Same goes for you! You drink your tea, go to bed and _don't_ solve any case, do you hear me?"

Sherlock raised surprised both eyebrows, but chuckled.

"Of course, Doctor."

"Good."

The door closed again and Sherlock was alone.

Well, not completely alone.

After all and no matter if one had a heart or not, or how you define "heart", it was good and relieving to have somebody who cared for one the same one cared for him.

Friend, lover, with one right beside you or at the other side of the Earth...

As long you know it, you never are

truly

alone.

* * *

><p><strong>More than anything else I love feedback andor critique! 3**

**Much thanks to everyone who gives me some!**


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